A Boy and His Dog
by Static O. Sventura
Summary: Companion piece to A Dog and His Boy. Either one can be read first. Sherlock has never really had friends. But a puppy is supposed to be a boy's best friend. At least, that's what all the books say. Warnings inside. NO SLASH and AU


**DISCLAIMER**

**Well, A Dog and His Boy was basically my brain saying "WRITE THIS!"**

**I thought that would be the end of it.**

…

**Stupid me.**

**Since you can read either one first:**

**For this story, absolutely no slash! (Sorry, but I never write slash)**

**There are normal animals, but there are also regular humans and humans with animal features. The usual physical features are a tail and ears, but some have a few other animal features. These "Non-Humans" are basically pets. As for differentiating between the two, "animals" means regular animals and "Animals" means the human hybrids.**

**WARNINGS: Umm, well this is Sherlock. Bullying, drug/alcohol use, violence, occasional bleeped out cursing. Also for 2x03 in general (Suicide)**

_"A dog teaches a boy fidelity, perseverance, and to turn around three times before lying down." -Robert Benchley_

Sherlock doesn't really have friends. He has Mycroft, but Mycroft is his brother, so he doesn't count.

Mummy and Father don't count either, because friends play with you.

Of course, Sherlock has never had a friend before, so he doesn't really see the point. But like any boy his age, the promise of a puppy for his fifth birthday is intriguing. Well, for normal boys it's exciting, for Sherlock it's intriguing.

But he refuses to get some pedigree animal that has had the brains bred right out of them.**  
**

* * *

It takes a lot to convince Mycroft to take him to a pound. After all, there's bound to be many more interesting dogs at the pound than at the breeder's. Of course, Mycroft has to foil his fun by saying no to any dog that bites, barks too much, pees too much, chews furniture, or has rabies.

Mycroft can be so dull sometimes. He's already eliminated more than half of the potential candidates! Sherlock will never find the perfect dog at this rate.

He searches through all the kennels, deducing.

_Abusive home._

_Fleas_

_Fleas_

_Dying_

_Biter_

_Incessant barker._

…_Perfect._

Brown eyes stare back at him from a round face.

_Quiet,_

_Young,_

_Golden Retriever mutt,_

_Perfect._

"Him, Mycroft."

* * *

John Hamish Watson, John for short and Watson instead of Holmes because Mummy would just die if a dog shared her name, is exactly how a puppy should be.

In Sherlock's opinion, of course.

Sometimes he barks, but only for good reason. And he plays pirates with Sherlock!

Mummy didn't like that he's a mutt and Father isn't home so he doesn't know yet, but Sherlock doesn't care. In fact, the idea that they don't like John is just another point for the puppy, in Sherlock's opinion.

And Sherlock's opinion is the only one that counts on the matter.

Mycroft says cats are much better pets, but Sherlock tells Mycroft that his cat is stupid, dull, and licks herself.

Mycroft points out that dogs do that too.

Sherlock makes sure John gets a bath that night.

Besides, John is _**infinitely**_ better than Mycroft's stupid cat. And at least Sherlock doesn't change his pet's name everyday.**  
**

* * *

They called him a freak.

Sherlock is not a freak.

He's special, just like Mycroft told him, and all those stupid, dull kids are just jealous.

It still makes him cry though.

School is horrible. John greets him happily at the door as soon as he gets home, ready to play, but Sherlock doesn't feel like playing.

Instead, he goes to his room and hugs John very hard because he's crying very hard, and all those children were so _**mean**_! Mycroft didn't tell him it would be so horrible. Mycroft said it would be fun, that he'd make friends and have fun. But Mycroft lied! Stupid, dull, fat, Mycroft!

So Sherlock sits on his floor, crying into John's fluffy puppy hair and squeezing him tight because John is small, warm, round, and _**huggable**_.

…

He's turning into a baby, using stupid words like huggable.

Even if it's true.

* * *

John isn't really a puppy anymore.

Sherlock knew it would happen, it's illogical to ever think it wouldn't happen, but it's still rather surprising. A small part of Sherlock thought reliable John would stay a puppy forever. But of course that's silly.

Sherlock himself has shot up like a weed. John grows ever so slowly, like a mountain slowly growing taller over time. Although, judging by the size he was as a puppy, he's never going to be really big.

Mummy said his hair would lose its curl as he grew older but it seems to have only gotten worse. It's starting to drive Sherlock crazy, but it's also driving his parents crazy, so maybe he likes it. Sometimes he wishes his hair was more like John's. Not the color, Sherlock is positive he would look horrid with hair the color of _**straw**_. Mummy would probably die of shock.

…Maybe he could dye it sometime. As an experiment, of course.

But Sherlock certainly wouldn't mind having hair that was manageable. And, while he's still comparing himself to his dog, John looks healthy. It's not Sherlock's fault that his body decided to become whippet thin. **(Whippet: Thin in an athletic way. Like a greyhound)** He probably could put on some more muscle, but eating is just so dull sometimes. Sherlock decided from a young age that he would be in charge, not his body.

Of course, this does leave him rather thin and pale.

But, being honest, Sherlock rather likes it. He thinks it intimidates his schoolmates a bit.

* * *

Psychopath.

The word scares him.

One of those stupid, dull girls shouted it at him. Probably has no idea what the word means.

Sherlock decided to research it anyway.

It scares him.

Everything, the tells, they all fit. Maybe he is a psychopath.

He shouldn't be scared though. Not every psychopath is a killer. In fact, according to research, not many are. That's a good thing.

He thinks.

* * *

Poor Sherlock, much too young to have an idea like that in his head. But the seed has been planted and has sprouted like ivy, invasive and dark.

Suddenly, everything he does every single day is a further sign.

He lied to Mummy. Psychopaths are told to be psychological liars.

He never cries at sad movies or stories. In fact, he finds them rather dull. Shallow Emotions.

Sometimes he swipes things from other students. No remorse at all. Another check against him.

It's a daily occurrence to feel that he's more important than others. Obviously a grandiose sense of self.

He's broken several bones on his wilder adventures. Need for stimulation.

He didn't cry when Father died. Mummy cried and Sherlock didn't care. Lack of empathy.

Impulsive nature.

Secretive.

Paranoid.

Incapacity for love.

Obviously, all the facts point to it, and Sherlock isn't stupid.

He's a psychopath.

So really, when the drugs start, he's doing the world a favor.

* * *

It didn't used to be so bad, didn't used to be a big deal.

It was just an experiment. An experiment that's taken over every aspect of his life.

Morphine makes his brain shut off, cocaine makes it go.

It's almost like some perverse children's book, one he would really rather not read. But the first picture ensnared him and he no longer wants to escape.

Life passes in a blur for Sherlock, a whirl of highs and comedowns.

Until one day, he can't find his stash.

He isn't even aware of the manic edge to his destructive search. All his brain can come up with is one all-important question.

_WHERE ARE THEY!?_

His room is wrecked but that is no concern of his because his stash. Is. Not. There.

Movement from the doorway attracts his attention.

John, John is in the doorway. Immediately, Sherlock's brain goes to work.

_Won't meet eyes, nervous._

_Sweating, further sign on anxiety, but judging by the dirt stains on trousers and hands exertion is more likely._

_Dirt, lack of grass stains means backyard._

_Smell is unique to the manure the gardener uses on Mummy's tulips._

_Conclusion: John has buried it in Mummy's tulips._

His body seems to act of it's own accord, snarling and pushing John from his way. It's altogether too easy to discover which bed of tulips, all he has to do is watch were John looks.

Sherlock doesn't even bother finding any kind of digging implement, just drops to his knees shoveling up mud with his hands frantically. But it's pointless.

Between the dirt and the damp his stash is ruined.

That stupid mutt.

* * *

Sherlock wakes up in a gutter with absolutely no recollection of how he got there. Although the fresh track marks and sluggish brain are a dead giveaway. Only one thought circles through Sherlock's head.

He should get home.

* * *

It's pure luck that Sherlock makes it too his front door. He's obviously still high. On what, he's not entirely sure. His brain doesn't seem to want to function like it should.

Absolutely no one answers the door so Sherlock breaks in. After a thorough search, he discovers no one is home. No servants, no Mummy, no John.

Sherlock is starting to get scared.

* * *

His hands are shaking too violently for him to pick the lock, so he ends up slumped on Mycroft's doorstep. His big brother will know where everyone is, where John is. It's very important that he find John and… and… feed him?

When was the last time he fed John?

When was the last time he ate?

Sherlock curls up tighter, burrowing further into his jacket. Mycroft will know.

Mycroft will know where John is.

* * *

"I've never seen him before, officer. He must have crawled in here for warmth."

Sherlock stirs at the voice. Mycroft? Is he at Mycroft's?

"Alright, Mr. Holmes, we'll get him out of your way."

Who is that? What are they talking about?

"Come on, you."

Someone's prodding at him. Why? He wants it to stop.

Why won't his brain work?

"Come on, lad, you can't stay here."

Different voice, close to him,

"Something's wrong with him."

Someone leans down, sniffs at him. Sniffing, who's sniffing? John? Is it John?

Hands slip into his coat pocket, pulling out something, something-

Sherlock jackknifes, arms striking out at anyone nearby.

Drugs!

They're taking his drugs!

"S***, he's higher than the Alps! Restrain him!"

Men, two, no three! Three men, all surrounding him! Next to him, an Animal, dog, male, graying-

There. The Animal has his stash.

Sherlock lunges at the dog only to have hands, so many hands, grab him, wrestle him away, wrestle him to the ground. He screams, fighting them with tooth and nail. One of the men shouts,

"Lestrade, get the handcuffs!"

Sherlock struggles like a man possessed. Handcuffs, locking, locking up, locking him away, no stash, no stash!

A sob rips itself from his as the cold bands click shut over his wrists. The fight's over, he's lost. He goes limp.

They talk as he's carried out, but he hardly notices. All he sees is Mycroft watching him be carried away, grey eyes cold and blank. Eyes of a stranger.

* * *

Eventually, Mycroft bails him out. By then, Sherlock has had more than enough time to gather his thoughts and come to one conclusion.

He is furious.

"Was it some kind of joke? Does it make you happy to manipulate me?"

Mycroft ignores the growled accusations, getting right to business with a cold detachment,

"You can't continue like this, Sherlock."

"I can do whatever the H*** I want, Mycroft!"

His brother's name sounds like a curse. Mycroft sighs,

"Brother dear…"

"Where's John?"

Mycroft examines Sherlock,

"…John is no longer of your concern."

* * *

The streets are not kind, especially not to an addict with nowhere else to go.

The last flat was a pit, a waste of money, valuable money that could be spent on much more important things. Namely his poisons of choice.

Sherlock grows skeletal, his poor abused body wasting away. His hair grows matted and filthy. Sherlock doesn't care.

There's only one thing he cares about anymore.

* * *

It's an Animal that saves him. After years on the streets, he finally draws some attention. A German Shepard, collar identifying him as part of NSY Canine Division. G. Lestrade.

Sherlock doesn't really care at the time.

Lestrade finds his brother. Sits with him while waiting. Treats the young man gently, calming him down. Sherlock passes out with his head on the dog's shoulder before the black car even turns down their road.

* * *

A year in rehab clears out his system. He sees a lot of Lestrade and Lestrade's detective, Dimmock. Lestrade says he bargained with Dimmock. Sherlock's a smart kid with a good head on his shoulders. He could certainly help out Scotland Yard.

Sherlock finally admits what's been plaguing him for years,

"You won't want me. I'm a psychopath."

Lestrade snorts,

"That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard."

Sherlock doesn't believe him. He's average and with the police. He's obviously heard much stupider things in his lifetime. Sherlock tells him so.

"You're certainly dumb for a genius."

Sherlock bristles, ready to retort…

"A psychopath wouldn't care if they were a psychopath."

…Maybe Lestrade has a valid point.

* * *

Mycroft's visit isn't nearly as pleasant.

"Where's John?"

"He's not coming back, Sherlock."

"He's my dog, Mycroft."

"Not any longer. You forfeited that right when you hit him. John has a new life now."

* * *

Sherlock stays clean, Lestrade gets him cases. He has an amazing amount of pull at Scotland Yard for a police dog. In return, Sherlock helps Dimmock earn a promotion.

Detective Inspector Dimmock and his dog. Lestrade won't be bothered with the boring little routine cases now.

When Lestrade first hears Sherlock call himself a sociopath, he doesn't reprimand him because he sees it for what it is.

A compromise.

* * *

Sherlock lives on cases. It's a high much better than any drug.

He just wishes John could be with him.

But that's illogical. John was his dog when he was a boy. He's not a boy anymore and John is probably quite content helping paramedics. He never thinks to look for John. Not after Mycroft told him what he'd done to the dog all those years ago.

John's better off away from Sherlock.

* * *

The case had barely caught his interest, but something about it had drawn his curiosity.

Just the murder of some storeowner. Something trivial, committed by an angry acquaintance, found dead in his flat, single bullet to the head, suicide.

Boring.

Sherlock is with them though when they find the perpetrator. Checks the flat, more of a penthouse really, for anything they might have missed.

_Well-off_

_Dog owner_

_Art col…_

Sherlock's brain putters to a stop as he glances back at the man's dog.

Overweight Golden Retriever. Hasn't stirred once since they entered.

Sherlock gets closer.

Flashy pink collar. Something a sadistic rich woman might make her Chihuahua wear. The heart-shaped tag proudly proclaims the dog's name as "Sebastian."

Sherlock kneels besides the cushions.

It's John.

He hasn't seen him in years, but Sherlock recognizes him. Without really thinking about it, he's reaching out, long fingers brushing against the floppy ear.

John pries his eyes open, lazily flicking them up.

Sherlock's heart stops,

"John?"

There's absolutely no sign of recognition, no flicker of intelligence.

John's a pet.

* * *

Mycroft is the one who gets everything settled, finds the high-end clinic for rich owners and their pets.

An Animal Rehabilitation Clinic.

Sherlock barely hears anything the veterinarian tells them. Doesn't listen to the talk of anti-anxiety medicine, diets, and exercises to get him back on his feet. All he can think about is that horrid blankness in his dog's eyes.

John was always a bright dog, much smarter than other stupid dogs. He liked to play, and explore, and discover. He was the perfect companion for an energetic child-genius. What's been done to him is _**wrong**_, a crime, and if the man wasn't already dead, Sherlock might kill him himself.

Sherlock gets updates over the months John's there. Hears how John is starting to go along with treatment. The diet and exercise have made it easier for him to get around as he loses weight. No adverse side effects from being weaned off the medication. Still limps, but he can walk with a cane.

When Sherlock finally visits, it's close to when John will be discharged. The dog looks much better. The exercises have got him starting to develop a bit of muscle, trimmed down the excess fat. His eyes are much clearer and…

He recognizes Sherlock.

* * *

He's given firm instructions about John's exercises, diet, and care. If his leg pains him, he's to take the painkillers they give him, but only if it hurts. Sherlock ignores them after that.

John is coming home.

* * *

John takes to Mrs. Hudson well, as well as Mrs. Hudson takes to him. Sherlock gives her a lecture on overfeeding John, and watching what she gives him, and…

"Nonsense, dearie. My cooking never hurt anyone."

She slips John another biscuit that John slowly munches.

Sherlock will just have to pay closer attention to the exercise then.

* * *

John is quiet and doesn't really interact with him. Sherlock is worried that it'll never be like it used to be.

Then John saves him from the cabbie.

* * *

Sherlock has to re-teach John to speak, but that's alright.

He can be patient…

Sometimes.

When John says his name, it's about the best feeling ever.

John starts trying harder to communicate vocally.

Sherlock saves him from the gang.

Things couldn't be better.

* * *

Seeing John strapped to live explosives is even worse than seeing him a mindless pet. It snaps Sherlock out of the happy little haze that being on such an interesting case has given him.

Moriarty will pay. Sherlock will see to that.

* * *

Irene confuses him.

At least that he's sure of.

She could be so brilliant yet she squanders it, wasting it for something so frightfully dull.

It reminds him of himself. Maybe that's why she's so intriguing.

When she dies, he feels… he doesn't know how he feels. He knows John and Mrs. Hudson have checked the flat. He knows they haven't found anything. Not because it's well hidden, but because there's nothing to find. He closes his door and curls up on his bed. When John steps in, he's sure it's to reassure him, placate him with false statements.

"I… I'm sorry, Sherlock-Master. But-but, Mycroft-Human told me to look! I'm sorry…"

John is frightened.

John is very frightened.

John is very frightened of _**him**_.

"John, come here."

The dog slowly makes his way over, kneeling beside the bed. Sherlock moves slowly, showing John he's not going to hit him. He gently scratches behind John's ear, his voice soft,

"That was very brave of you, John. You were very brave and good for listening to Mycroft."

John's tail wags as he melts into the praise. He doesn't get it often.

"But next time, please pay closer attention to my sock index."

John laughs.

* * *

It's wrong, so very wrong what Sherlock does, but he has to know.

He feels very odd as he terrifies a hallucinating John.

Lestrade tells him afterward that it's called guilt.

Sherlock does not like guilt. Not one bit.

He gets John as much Chinese takeout as he wants for a week. His dog…

His friend deserves it.

* * *

"_You've fallen, Sherlock, and you're going to take your friends with you."_

Sherlock stares down at Moriarty's body, thinking over what the consulting criminal said.

Every single word sounds true.

No one really likes Sherlock, he's not a very pleasant person to be around. They'll believe Kitty Riley and _**Richard Brook**_ all too easily. Especially now that the "actor" he hired is dead, apparently killed himself out of shame is what the papers will say.

Mycroft betrayed him. Sherlock's always been a horrible brother, but he never thought his older brother would sell him out. There will be no help from Mycroft.

Lestrade came to arrest him. He'll probably lose his job and it'll be all Sherlock's fault. Poor Lestrade will be homeless, no family, no work, no life. He'll hate Sherlock.

Mrs. Hudson and Molly read the papers. They both know he can be cruel. Maybe now they'll believe the lies.

And John…

"_John's a good doggy, Sherlock. He'll follow you, stay with you until he dies. And he will die, Sherlock. Because you're poison."_

Sherlock can't do that to his John, can't do that to his friend.

"_Now be a good little boy and follow daddy's example."_

It's for the best. It's definitely for the best. Moriarty is right.

* * *

He calls John.

He jumps.

* * *

The dog is very kind to him. The dog is his. JOHNFRIENDBROTHERJOHN.

John takes very good care of him. He feeds him, until Sherlock can move his arms again. He pushes him in the wheelchair until Sherlock can walk again. When his brain, or body, or mouth won't work right, John is very patient. He doesn't rush him, soothes him when he's frustrated.

The man with the umbrella is there a lot too. MYCROFTBROTHERMY.

He is very patient too. If Sherlock's deductions are wrong, he doesn't get mad. He explains it to Sherlock, ever so carefully. He helps Sherlock bathe, because sometimes Sherlock's hands don't work right, and soap is supposed to go in your hair not your eyes. My helps him get ready for bed too, and Sherlock is ever so thankful for that.

Others come too. He calls the cat "Anti" and she smiles and strokes his hair, so he knows it's okay to call her that.

The talking girl comes and talks and talks. Her name is Molly, and Sherlock thinks he likes her talking.

The kind, warm woman brings him food and says

"You're too skinny, Sherlock!"

And she would never hurt him, so he trusts her. One day, he calls her "Mum" and she cries and cries and Sherlock is worried he said something wrong. But she hugs him tight and says he can call her that, so it must be okay.

One time, a man and woman-cat come. John growls at them, but they don't leave. The woman-cat has curly hair, and she looks sad, so Sherlock gives her a smile. She starts crying and the funny-looking man looks like he might throw up. They don't come back, but one day he gets a present in the mail and John says it's from them. Sherlock likes the orange blanket very much.

Sherlock is all by himself one day, when the other dog comes. His tail is tucked tight against his legs, his ears are flat, and he looks very, very sad. Seeing him sad makes Sherlock feel sad, so he smiles. The dog still looks sad, but he smiles too and his tail wags a bit. His voice is soft and his hands are warm as he squeezes Sherlock's hand. He laughs softly when he sees Sherlock's special orange blanket. His name is Greg, and poor Greg looks very tired and thin, so when he falls asleep in front of the couch, Sherlock doesn't wake him. He evens puts the special blanket over him. John looks surprised when he comes back, but then he smiles and that makes Sherlock smile. After that, Greg never leaves and John tells Sherlock that he's going to live with them.

Sherlock likes that just fine.

It's nice to have family so close.

**And… it's done! The companion piece is done! :D**

**Was the end too sappy? This is AU, but I might have overdone it on the sappy meter.**

**Like last time, I'd love to know what you guys think :)**

**I like constructive criticism, so long as it's constructive and not just criticism.**

**I'm thinking of maybe have a series of one-shots in this universe. Not all as long as these last two, but still pretty long. Anyone want to see that?**

**Oh, and when Sherlock is comparing himself to a psychopath. I hope it was obvious to see that he wasn't really being rational. He was distressed and ended up convincing himself that he must be one. He's not of course.**

**Bye for now!**

_Static_


End file.
